The Diary of Arthur Dimmesdale
by argella1300
Summary: Rev. Arthur Dimmesdale reflects on his daily life in his diary, centered around the two scaffold scenes and Hester and Dimmesdale's meeting in the forest. Based off an assignment I got in English after we finished the book in class.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey guys! Sorry if you're waiting for Chapter 2 of Learning To Stand, I just thought I'd upload something to satisfy you while you waited. **

**A while back in English, we read _The Scarlet Letter_ by Nathaniel Hawthorne. After we finish a book, we usually do some sort of essay as a test or assessment. For _The Scarlet Letter_, since it's a rather difficult book in terms of how dense the language can be sometimes, we go to do a creative writing assignment instead. As you can imagine, this made me VERY happy. So, I thought I would let you guys see what I submitted for my assignment. **

**Basically, the assignment was to choose one of the principle characters in the book (Rev. Arthur Dimmesdale, Hester Prynne, her daughter Pearl, or Hester's husband, Roger Chillingworth) and write three journal or diary entries describing development, how it relates to the Romanticism genre, etc. I chose to write about Dimmesdale for my assignment.  
**

**For those of you who don't know what _The Scarlet Letter_ is about, check SparkNotes here: http:/www. /lit/ scarlet/ summary .html (take out all the spaces first).**

**Anyways, let's get on with the show, shall we?**

* * *

_October 21, 1640_

Hester was made to stand on the scaffold today, this early morn around the ninth hour, and what a sight she was to behold! She carried herself tall and proud, clothed in a scarlet dress fit for a queen, the letter embroidered in gold on her chest. She stood as if to mock and smite us all, and from what I can glean from the gossips in the community, some did take offense to her disposition, whilst others where more forgiving. Truth be told, I am most conflicted over the matter of Hester Prynne. I know not whether to be relieved or disgusted- relieved that she didn't reveal my part in her crime, or disgusted at myself for not turning myself in.

Indeed, it was I who planted that accursed seed in the maiden's womb! Would that I had but an ounce of the strength that Hester hath displayed today on that scaffold, then I might have withstood the Devil's temptations and not put myself and Hester in such a state. If all this be true, which indeed it is, then according to our most revered teachings I am therefore condemned and evil, as is Hester. How can this be true? Human is to be flawed, that in itself means it is perfect. And it is only through our flaws and their consequences that we learn and grow. Hester does not deserve this fate, nor do I wish it upon anyone else.

But, imagine if the people, the ones who entrusted their very souls to my care, came to learn of my lustful deeds- I dread to think. And there in itself lies the very crux of our troubles: If my deed is made public, I am to submit to punishment- one such is death- and my flock will have no shepherd to protect them from the wolves that prowl at night. But if my deed is kept secret, I am condemned and thus branded a coward and liar. And if I must live with that label of coward in order to protect my sheep, then so be it. I would rather suffer the hottest fires of Hell than condemn my fellow parishioners to the same fate.

-Arthur

* * *

**Okay, so that's the first entry! On to the second! Read and review please!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay, here's the second entry! Enjoy! **

**NOTE: This entry takes place seven years after the previous entry  
**

* * *

_December 11, 1647_

How long must this inner torment plague me? I have been tortured these past seven years by my deed, taunted by that God-forsaken brand on that pitiful creature's chest! Visions now dance in front of my eyes, robbing me of sleep. I feel a constant and persistent ache in my breast, almost as if I were branded like she was, though it ebbs from time to time. I have been living with the town physician, Roger Chillingworth, so he may tend to my wounds and try to ease my afflictions. At times though, an odd sensation comes over me, and I find myself hating the man, and wary of his actions. I know not why, and I mention this to no one. I can find no logical reason for it, and so I try not to let the matter bother me too much, for fear of further persecution.

I keep up with my vigils, striving to find the strength to confess, but, alas!, I cannot. Curse this mortal skin and mind for being so cowardly and weak! For being so susceptible to the manners and mind of one lady, who herself is already married to another. I must become stronger, so I may never make such a sinful error again! If having to stare the cause of my coawrdice in the face every waking day is not enough, then God help me.

I have never fully appreciated how effective our ways of dealing with criminals, or at least poor souls in a similar position to mine own, are. My crime is rotting and festering like an open wound on the very core of my soul. It saps the very warmth and strength from my bones. I confess I sometimes wish and think that death would ease my suffering, make the pain go away. I regret such thoughts, and I know that they offer no true solution.

Such have been my motivations and thoughts in my most recent prayers, and which have plagued me day and night. I have long sought for a solution, but have come back empty-handed. But just last night, it occurred to me: Why not go back to where it all began? Strange, how when the mind is most distraught, and our world seems to end, that we often find ourselves more perceptive and wise, and we seem to have an unshakable faith in our own selves?

And so I made my way to that wretched scaffold late last night. My recollection of events is somewhat vague, and what I do remember has an almost dream-like quality to it, as if I were under the sway of some foreign tonic or drug. I remember mounting the steps, a sharp pain in my chest, and the paralyzing fear of being discovered. Next, I recall a most distinct little giggle; which nearly made me jump out of my skin, mind you, it was so quiet. I remember Hester and her little Pearl, making their way home from Winthrop's deathbed. They came to stand with me, and it gave me such a feeling of peace and comfort that I haven't felt in over seven years. The child asked if I would stand with them tomorrow, and if not tomorrow when- to which I could only provide the answer of the great Judgment Day. I remember seeing her face, bathed in the cold winter moonlight, and observing the remarkable resemblance to her mother. Except for her eyes- exactly like mine own, sinner's eyes.

Pardon the interruption, but I feel I should note that Hester's position in the town has changed somewhat as of late. No longer is she "Adulterer", but now "Able". She has done much charity for the town in the form of her beautiful needlecraft. It is a blessing for all of us, though brides are not allowed to wear her work; it would not do for a virgin bride to associate herself with such sinfulness. I fear that she will never be able to escape the letter, try as she might. It has taken on a life of its own; it is as much a part of her as her eyes, head or feet. 'Tis unfortunate, these kind acts mean nothing in God's eyes; she can never truly redeem herself for what she has done, for what I assisted her in doing.

But back to last night, and the strange fever-like events that transpired. After looking at Pearl's eyes, I sensed, rather than saw, someone approach. Their aura was full of malicious intent, and it made my gut clench in fear when I felt it directed towards myself. The figure then emerged from the shadows, revealing itself to be the kind physician, Mr. Chillingworth. I know for sure I was startled and afraid for mine own safety, and that I asked Hester and her- our- daughter, who this man was. Hester remained in frightened silence, now I am having trouble deciphering whether she would not or could not speak. Pearl attempted to say, though she either spoke in gibberish or my addled brain cannot remember. Chillingworth approached the scaffold, making a pretense of concern, which made me uneasy for some reason. He informed me that I had been sleepwalking, and he lead me down the scaffold and back to our rooms.

Since then, a change has come over me. My chest and heart ache more persistently and painfully, and my own appearance ahs taken a turn for the worse. I have trouble seeing the joy of each new day, dreading instead the pain that it will inevitably bring.

-Arthur

* * *

**That's it for the second entry, hope you enjoyed it! Please review!**


End file.
